A Commissioner's Duty
by Blaise
Summary: Theisman and LePic balance on the edge of treason. A missing scene from 'In Enemy Hands', written for maat seshat for Yuletide 2009.


Cordelia Ransom made her way towards the door of Theisman's quarters, and Denis LePic stared at his monitors, appalled.

In principle, there had been no need for him to listen in to Theisman's conversation with Cordelia Ransom. Ransom was on the Committee herself; she didn't require a report about her own conversation. But for the sake of completeness, and to ensure he had a clear picture of his admiral's behaviour, LePic had paid attention. At least, that was the official reason, what he would say if anyone asked. And it was a true reason, since LePic was far too prudent to risk a lie about something like that. But there were unofficial reasons too. Theisman had been spending the evening getting drunk, and even though he had used the detox inhaler, it wasn't quite the same as being sober. And when Theisman was drunk, he talked.

LePic had listened with twofold horror. First because he had seen the trap Theisman was walking into, all the while believing he was saving the prisoners. Theisman was incomparable on the flag deck of a battle fleet, but it was LePic who had been trained for the war of words. As he had expected, Ransom had used Theisman's arguments against him, catching him in his own net of words. Theisman's face was hard to read, at least for someone not familiar with him, but LePic had seen his anguished dismay clearly, and after the door sealed behind Ransom, Theisman's mask dropped completely. LePic had watched Theisman hold firm through hopeless battles, agonising waits for relief, twisting the odds in his favour and enduring pain and privation with his men without ever cracking. But what the Manties had never been able to manage, Cordelia Ransom was accomplishing.

LePic turned away from his monitors, but he could not avoid his second horror at the conversation he had just heard. _Was he doing the right thing?_ The question had lain hidden in the far corners of his mind for a long time, troubling his sleep and forcing him to spend long hours concentrating with excessive dedication on his reports and studies so that he would be able to avoid it. But now it sprang to the centre. Were all things right in the service of the revolution? No rule, no code, no law to be held above the work of the People? It was right that the People should rule themselves, and the Committee of Public Safety was the organ by which the revolution was organised-must be organised, for every government required leaders-but was it above the law? That law that LePic had once dedicated his life to studying and upholding? He didn't care about Honor Harrington in particular; as far as he was concerned it wouldn't have mattered whether Cordelia Ransom decided to make an issue out of her or out of some lowly Manticoran private. It was the principle that was at stake, and the principle that Ransom wanted to brush aside.

LePic's eyes flickered back to the monitor as Theisman stumbled to the washroom and was wrenchingly sick, then sat on the floor in the dark, very still, head on his knees. LePic switched the monitor off. It was part of his job to watch his admiral and his admiral's staff, but LePic had always drawn a clear line in his head between the necessary monitoring of political behaviour, and voyeuristic intrusion in their lives. He knew others didn't, and no such distinction had ever been made during his training, but LePic found it essential. His job was to protect the government from recidivist commanders, to prevent revolts and conspiracies and to see that the revolution's goals were never compromised. That meant he had to make sure his admiral's work was uninfluenced by dangerous political opinions. But what Theisman thought when he sat alone in the dark was none of LePic's business.

Besides, he knew what Theisman thought. Theisman might deceive Ransom, who didn't know him, but he had no such defences against LePic. Theisman didn't think the revolution was more important than his own private moral code. And LePic had watched Theisman follow that moral code through all sorts of delicate and difficult situations, had trusted his life to it, and it was getting harder for him to ignore the obvious conclusion: that he was growing ever more willing to trust Theisman's code above the revolution as well.

He heard, not through the monitors but the thin partition walls of the station, a clatter from Theisman's suite. Slowly, unsure what he was doing, LePic got up from his desk and went to the door separating their quarters. With ingrained politeness he knocked.

"What the hell is it now?" came through, muffled by the door, which LePic took as permission to enter.

Theisman was sitting on the floor outside his washroom, head resting on the wall. He didn't look up as LePic entered. LePic thought he'd never seen a more defeated-looking man. He crossed the room, noting the almost-empty whisky bottle and the overturned chair, and stood a little way off, trying not to feel awkward and still not sure what he was doing.

"Need more data for your report, do you?" Theisman growled at him. "You want to describe how helpful I was to the Secretary and how useful my ideas will be to her and to the People's Republic? I'm sure it will look good." Abruptly Theisman lurched to his feet, gripping the wall. The detox must have worn off, LePic thought. "Fuck off, Denis. I'm done." He reached to his collar and unfastened the rank pins there. "I've had it with serving those filthy liars. You write a real report for them now, tell them what I really think of them, and they can do what they want to me. I've used up my last drop of honour for them, and I've had enough of ordering my men to go die for the sake of Cordelia Ransom." He flung the pins at LePic, who didn't move. They fell short, skittering across the floor.

"I came to see if you were all right," LePic said quietly. Deep down, he sympathised with Theisman's acts. What he had heard had made him want to go to Saint-Just and hand in his resignation too. But that would be a disaster for them both.

"Oh, I'm all right. I'm a fucking hero, me. Hero of the revolution."

"Come and sit down," LePic said. It was always harder to sustain the role of tragic hero whilst seated. Some understanding of that must have been in Theisman's mind, for he remained where he was. LePic sighed inwardly, but crossed the room anyway and sat on the chair Cordelia Ransom had so lately vacated, righting Theisman's chair as he went. Theisman watched him, a hint of confusion in his eyes beneath the pain and fury.

"I never told you where I grew up, did I?" LePic asked him. Theisman blinked, and LePic continued serenely, as if he were addressing a judge. "It was in Lyon-sur-l'eau, near the native fauna reservation. One of the most beautiful places on Haven. I could see it from the window of our apartment in the Dolist tower, and I loved it. When I went to study law in Nouveau Paris, I was homesick for months. I can still make myself homesick by thinking about it too hard. That green water and the white peaks..."

Theisman pushed off the wall and came to stand facing LePic. "Have you been drinking too?" he demanded.

"And," LePic continued, nailing Theisman with his gaze, "if we lose this war, the Manty flag will be flying there. And we will lose this war, if our best admirals let their personal ... disagreements ... with some individual politician stop them from fighting."

Theisman sat down hard. "What kind of commissioner are you anyway?" he demanded.

LePic chose his words carefully. "My job is to make sure that your political opinions are not such as to prevent you from following the orders of the civilian government, which means the Committee of Public Safety. I see part of my work as pre-emptive and preventative." That was a gloss he had put on his job for himself. It made sense. It was much more cost-effective to coax an admiral of dubious political credentials to stick to the straight and narrow than to send him home, execute him and train up a replacement. And the Navy wouldn't find another Tom Theisman by sticking a pin in the roster.

Theisman eyed him. "Did you even mean that about Lyon-sur-l'eau?"

"Yes."

Theisman continued to stare at him, looking for LePic didn't know what. Finally he leaned back in his chair. "God, Denis," he said. "I don't know what I'm doing any more."

LePic stood up, picked up the rank pins from the floor and extended his hand to Theisman, palm up, inviting. There was a long dense silence. Theisman rubbed a hand across his face and nodded, meeting LePic's eye. He straightened his shoulders and took the pins. His fingers fumbled with the sharp points and slightly crumpled fabric of his collar. LePic watched and felt like a traitor.

He knew Theisman, he suspected, better than anyone else alive. He'd seen Theisman's confidential records, watched him on-duty and off-duty, knew his strengths and his weaknesses, the best and the worst and everything in between. He'd been trained, of course, in how to watch closely without becoming close, but that training had worn thinner and thinner under the relentless pressure of war. It was the barest gossamer veil now, but it was enough. Enough for him to hold Theisman to a duty that he was starting to doubt himself, enough to keep Theisman serving Cordelia Ransom and Oscar Saint-Just.

He had the sense of an opportunity flying past him, but what else could he have done? Told Theisman that he was perfectly right to feel betrayed by the Committee of Public Safety and all it stood for? That he felt betrayed too, that he was losing faith in the government? That was a road that LePic was not sure he had the courage to walk, a road that must, under this government, lead to the scaffold. And it was not a road that he would push Theisman onto. He was sure Theisman had courage and to spare for it, but try though he might LePic couldn't find a way around the argument he had just made. Haven needed admirals, needed victors, who would keep the Manties at bay. And Theisman was the best.

"You should get some sleep," he said finally, since he couldn't say any of the things in his mind.

"Yeah." Theisman stood up unsteadily. "I'm not sure if I should thank you for this or not."

The idea of being thanked for this burned acidly in LePic's mind, but he simply shrugged in answer. "It's my job. We serve where we're sent." He had never felt such distaste for it before.

Theisman clapped him on the shoulder but said nothing more until he reached the doorway to his bedroom. Then he paused.

"Lyon-sur-l'eau, eh?" he said, and a faint smile crinkled his eyes. "I went there on leave once. It is beautiful." He half-turned towards LePic, balancing himself on the door jamb and said, "I serve the Republic of Haven."

He shut his bedroom door, leaving LePic to contemplate the difference made by omitting a single word.


End file.
